


Hooked on a Peeling

by DunningKrugerExplainsEverything



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Comics), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1917216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DunningKrugerExplainsEverything/pseuds/DunningKrugerExplainsEverything
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angela was a woman that liked to keep mementos. Souvenirs. Tokens of past victories. It was kinda serial killer-ish, when you thought about it. </p><p>Murder. Taxidermy. Hula hoops. A Guardians of the Galaxy femslash story, with eventual Angela/Gamora romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Angela, Gamora, Peter Quill, Rocket Racoon, Drax, and the Guardians of the Galaxy are the intellectual property of Disney. No copyright infringement intended.**

 

**Angela/Gamora romance. Eventually. No sexy stuff until later. Some blood and gore, if you're squeamish.**

 

**Hooked on a Peeling**

 

Angela and Gamora held many interests in common.

They liked fighting. They liked swords, and spears, and axes, and maces. They liked lances, and daggers, and war hammers and morning stars. They liked whips, and scythes, and hatchets, and clubs. They liked weapons so bizarre, so outlandish, you couldn't even put a _name_ to them.

Sharp edges, and piercing points, and twisting hooks, and crushing weights. Sliced flesh, and shattered bones, and crushed skulls, and spilt blood.

Angela and Gamora were women with very _similar_ tastes.

Together, the pair went to visit markets and bazaars, all throughout the galaxy – they spent hours wandering amongst the tents and stalls, pushing their way through crowds of strange creatures, venturing into marquees and emporiums, browsing through racks filled with peculiar weaponry.

There were weapons that had been designed for creatures with six limbs, eight limbs, ten limbs, twenty, thirty, forty. Weapons designed for creatures that could fly through the air, could slither across the ground, could shoot through the water. Weapons designed for creatures that could make themselves as insubstantial as mist. Weapons designed for creatures that could withstand searing heat and stiffening cold. Weapons for every species, every race, every shape, every body type imaginable.

Angela and Gamora sifted through the wares on offer. When it came to their tools, Angela and Gamora both had a liking for the _exotic._ The _foreign._ The _unfamiliar._ The _alien._

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

In a merchant's tent, Gamora reached up, and plucked a weapon from a shelf. An enormous blade, shaped in the form of a wide loop. She held it up to a shaft of light, and peered admiringly along the length.

Angela was examining a display cabinet filled with gleaming daggers. She glanced over at Gamora, and then crossed the tent to join her. “Something of interest, Lady Gamora?”

“Mmmmm.” Gamora flicked a finger against the surface of the metal, and the blade gave a pleasing shudder. “It's a ring blade,” she said. “I've seen these things before. They are crafted by a race called the Niagistini. They dwell upon a world named Nijika. The Niagistini are giant serpents – they can grow as long as twenty metres. They wear dozens of these weapons around their bodies – they spin and twirl around, and slice their enemies to pieces. It's quite a sight.”

Angela pondered this a moment. “Well, you are not a twenty-metre serpent, Lady Gamora,” she said, crossing her arms.

Gamora gave Angela a blank stare. “No, Angela,” she said. “I am not.”

There was an ironic _twist_ in the corner of Angela's mouth. A dismissive _quirk_ in her expression, also. “I would put that weapon back where you found it,” she went on. “It was not meant for you, Lady Gamora. You might hurt yourself.”

Gamora loosed a snort. “You know, it would behove you to be less _transparent_ when issuing your challenges, Angela.”

Angela made a great show of seeming taken aback. “ _Challenge_ , Lady Gamora?” she said. “I am simply concerned for your well-being.”

Gamora gave Angela a smirk, and then she bore the ring blade over to the merchant, a shambling, corpulent creature hidden beneath dark robes. “How much do you ask for this weapon?” she said.

The merchant wanted two thousand credits. Gamora was now the proud owner of a Niagistini ring blade.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Angela and Gamora held many interests in common...however, Angela had one hobby that Gamora would never _quite_ learn to appreciate.

Taxidermy.

When she was not serving with the rest of the Guardians, or exploring the planet Earth, Angela would often embark on hunting expeditions throughout the system. While she was off on these expeditions, Angela never answered her communicator. She would venture into the stars, disappearing for weeks on end, and not even Gamora knew where she went.

Angela travelled to the most barren, the most desolate, the most inhospitable realms in the galaxy – unbearably cold frozen wastes, sprawling jungles thick with poison and disease, charred deserts laden with oppressive heat, not a drop of water to be found for thousands of miles. Angela would journey to these forsaken, unwelcoming places, and there, she would seek out the most dangerous, most formidable, most _terrifying_ predators that such environments could put forth.

Packs of enormous wolves that could gobble a woman whole.

Gigantic spiders that could cover landscapes in thick silk for miles around.

Hordes of overgrown rats that could sweep across entire continents in a seething, ravenous mass.

Revolting, eldritch things with dozens of tentacles that could crush a space vessel as though it were a soda can.

Angela hunted them all down, and slew them. She fought them, and killed them, and then she dragged their massive carcasses all the way across the stars, back to headquarters, so that she could convert them into trophies.

Angela was a woman that liked to keep _mementoes._ Souvenirs. Tokens of past victories.

It was kinda _serial killer-ish,_ when you thought about it.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

One morning, Rocket and Groot saw Angela hauling a gigantic corpse across the cargo bay.

She had tied an enormous chain around its dead form, and now was dragging it across the floor, one tremendous tug at a time, pulling the enormous thing towards the waste disposal zone.

It weighed seven tons, at least. It was emerald green, and covered in scales. Unmistakeably reptilian in appearance – it had massive wings, and cruel, curving horns, and a long, pink tongue that lolled out of a beak-like mouth. Lots of sharp teeth. Lots of sharp talons.

“Is that a dragon?” Rocket said. He squinted, then looked at Groot. “It's a dragon. She killed a dragon.”

There was astonishment on Groot's weathered countenance. “I am Groot.”

Rocket cupped his hands over his mouth. “Hey, Angela!”

Angela glanced across the bay. “Good morning, Rocket!” she called. “Good morning, Groot! Does this day find you well?”

Rocket pointed a furry paw at the dead dragon. “Uh, Angela...all these nasties you hunt...you got a _permit_ for that?”

Angela gave Rocket a quizzical look. “Permit?”

Rocket slouched where he sat. “Thought not.”

Groot took a step forward. “I am Groot?”

“No thank you, Groot!” Angela said, with a cheery voice. She resumed pulling the dragon's cadaver across the bay. “I can manage by myself!”

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

When Angela was preparing her _trophies_ , she wore a very different outfit than her usual attire. She dressed herself in a long brown leather apron that covered her from neck to foot. Leather gloves. Plastic goggles for her eyes. A large, rubber cap, to ensure that no troublesome splatters of blood found their way into her flame-red hair. In battle, Angela was an elegant, graceful creature, darting in and out of her opponents' reach, dodging blows and evading attacks, lopping limbs and piercing hearts and severing heads and shattering skulls. When she was enjoying her hobby, however, all of her focus was concentrated upon her _hands_. Her _fingers._ Taxidermy could be a messy business. Blood got everywhere.

Angela began work on the dragon. She had a collection of tools and instruments that she used to remove the pelts from her slain quarry – knives, and scalpels, and clamps, and saws. She peeled the hide from the dragon's carcass, an enormous pool of blood slowly growing at her feet. She pushed great rolls of skin over its belly, its limbs, its neck, its back, inch-by-inch revealing bones, and muscles, and organs, and sinews.

“I wish I could show you my trophy room in Heven,” Angela said, as she worked. Her face was flecked with blood. “I served for thousands of years as a hunter for my people, and that room was a monument to my life's work. The greatest battles I ever fought...the most fearsome adversaries I ever vanquished...beasts the likes of which you could never imagine...my life's history, all contained in that place.”

Angela paused, briefly. She seemed sad, for a moment.

“It is all lost to me, now,” she said, her voice so low that one had to strain to hear it. “I must begin anew.”

Angela began working again, pushing and pulling flaps of skin over the mass of flesh.

Gamora was there. She was standing by the door, leaning against the wall, a good distance away. She slouched in her spot, peering at Angela as she skinned the enormous beast.

“When you have the creature's hide off, what then?” said Gamora.

“Then, I must create a mannequin to wear the skin,” said Angela.

Gamora furrowed her brow. “You'll create a mannequin? How will you do that?”

Angela pushed a scalpel into a troublesome spot. “I will carve it from wood,” she said. “It must match the dragon exactly. The same size. The same shape. Also, I will need to create glass eyes! That's always the part that I enjoy the most.” She glanced over at Gamora. “It's always nice when you slay a creature that has large, expressive eyes.”

Quill was not there, but Gamora could imagine what he would say, at that moment. _A hunter, a warrior, a sculptor, and an artist?_ she could hear his voice say. _Angela's quite the renaissance woman, isn't she?_

“How long does it take for you to create one of your trophies, Angela?” Gamora said.

Angela scrunched her face in uncertainty. “It all depends upon the size of the creature that you wish to mount, Lady Gamora,” she said. “And the complexity of the job, of course. This dragon, I estimate, will take three months to properly prepare. Some prey might take one month, two months. Other creatures might need six months, a year, two years. A decade! Every quarry is different.”

Gamora fell silent, then.

Angela turned away from the dragon, and peered directly at her. “Does something trouble you, Lady Gamora?”

Gamora shook her head. “No, no...you don't think I'm bothered by a corpse and a few splashes of blood, do you? I just...I just find all this _unusual_ , is all.”

Angela gave a frown. “How so?”

Gamora wondered how to explain herself. She took a few moments to find the proper words.

“I was trained since birth to serve as an assassin,” she said. “I was trained to eliminate my targets in the most effective, efficient way possible.” She pressed a fingertip against her temple. “I was taught to put a bullet in a target's skull, and then vanish in a flash.” She drew a finger across her throat. “I was taught to cut a target's throat, and then disappear.” She put a fist to her chest. “Stab a target in the heart, and then get as far away as possible. Forget about them, forever.”

Gamora shrugged her shoulders. “Life is very cheap, when you're a professional killer. _Disposable_. Nothing worth dwelling upon.”

She inclined her head towards the half-skinned dragon. “But you...you're different,” she said. “You kill your opponents...and then you spend months _slaving_ over their corpses. Preparing them. You...you killed this creature, this dragon...and now you're slowly, carefully removing its skin. Patiently, painstakingly slowly, so that you don't damage its hide more than necessary. And then you're going to cut a mannequin from a block of wood, and then you're going to cut glass eyes, and it's going to take you months to finish, and you won't rest until it's done.” Gamora folded her arms, and shrugged again. Her eyes wandered to the sides. “It is almost...it is almost as though you are _worshipping_ them.”

This gave Angela food for thought. She stood before the bloodied corpse a while, and mused over what Gamora had told her. She was covered all over in flecks of viscera. She held a gore-stained instrument in either hand.

When Angela finally spoke, her voice was a gentle whisper. Gamora heard her well enough all the same. “Sometimes,” she said, “when I smite down my opponents...when I slay them...I wonder if they would find some small consolation in the knowledge that I will treat their corpses with such reverence. Such respect. Such obsession.”

Gamora gave a gentle snort. “I doubt that, Angela,” she said. “They're probably just angry that you've slaughtered them.”

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Gamora never imagined that Angela's little hobby would almost get them both killed.

One day, Gamora and Angela descended upon a world named Titan Lux. On this planet, there resided an extremely wealthy arms dealer. This individual – this _businessman_ – had recently profited from a number of military conflicts that had, of late, broken out in various corners of the system. He lived in an enormous mansion, in the middle of a vast, luxurious estate that stretched for miles and miles in every direction.

The arms dealer had information that the Guardians urgently required. Unfortunately, when Angela and Gamora came to visit, they did not find him in a particularly _cooperative_ mood.

The arms dealer had a pet. He kept it in an enormous enclosure, adjacent to his mansion. It was a dazzlingly beautiful creature – if a human was asked to describe it, they might have said that it had the body of a lion, the head of an eagle, and wide, sweeping wings that could whip up a gale in an instant. It was covered in golden fur and silken plumage, and a fierce flame burned in its eyes.

The creature was very exotic, and very expensive, and _very, very_ _aggressive_.

Angela took one look, and was instantly in love.

The arms dealer released his pet, and Gamora and Angela spent the next twenty minutes or so racing through the gigantic estate, the monster tearing off in pursuit. They rushed through opulent gardens, the monster demolishing gazebos and flattening flowerbeds and smashing sculptures as it thundered after them. They dashed through vineyards, the monster rampaging through bushes and vines. They raced through woods, the monster barrelling through the trees. They leapt across lakes and ponds, the monster bounding across the water, never far behind.

Angela loosed a length of her ribbon to distract the creature – it snapped and clawed at the fabric for a few seconds, and then began chasing them again. “Do you suppose our arms dealer friend has any other pets?” she called to Gamora.

“If he does,” Gamora growled, “I'm going to feed him to them!”

Killing the creature should have been a simple enough matter. Gamora had brought an assault rifle, and she had thought to equip herself with explosive shells. In addition, Quill, Rocket, Groot and Drax were on the ship, high, high above, monitoring the situation. It would have been the easiest thing in the universe to blow the beast to pieces. Blast it with missiles. Cut it into chunks with a well-aimed planetary laser. Reduce it to a gory smudge on the ground.

Unfortunately, Angela had other ideas.

“Peter, do not intervene!” Angela barked into her communicator. “Allow me to vanquish this beast myself!”

Quill's voice crackled in her ear. _“What? Angela, what are you doing?”_

“Do not harm this creature!” she screamed. “I wish it unharmed!”

“ _Unharmed?”_ Gamora shrieked at her, from a few feet away. _“It's trying to eat us!”_

It was. The creature tried to trap Gamora in a corner; she sprinted up the wall, and was narrowly able to reach the top, the beast smashing into the stone beneath her. The creature took to the skies, and tried to swoop down upon Angela from overhead – she darted into a copse of trees, the leaves and thick trunks giving her some cover.

Far above in orbit, the others tried to make sense of the spectacle on the display screens.

“Krutack are they doing?” Rocket said. “Why don't they just kill the frickin' thing?”

“I think Angela's found her next art project,” said Quill.

Rocket threw up his paws. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“I am Groot...”

Quill shrugged. “We see a hungry, flesh-eating carnivore...Angela sees a piece of interior decorating...”

Rocket groaned. Drax simply gave a low grunt of macabre approval.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Gamora vaulted over a wall, and then felt an explosion of dust and stones at her back as the creature smashed through to follow her. She unstrapped her rifle from where it hung at her back, and tried to aim behind her.

“Do not fire at that creature!” Angela screeched. “It's a highly rare species!”

Gamora leapt to the side, and narrowly avoided the beast as it dived after her. “You've only been in this galaxy for a year-and-a-half!” she bellowed. “How the hell would you know anything of _rare species?”_

“I read books, Lady Gamora!” Angela roared in reply.

Gamora twirled around an ornamental lamppost, and gained a little distance as the creature took a few moments to figure out where she was, now. “Well, what in blazes do you suggest we do, then?”

“I have poison!” Angela shouted. She waved a small, purple vial about for Gamora to see. “This is a highly potent venom! We can poison the fiend, and slay it without causing any damage to the beast's hide!”

Gamora plunged into a dense thicket of tendrils and thorns, angrily cursing whichever shiftless alien gardener had failed to keep this particular area neat and tidy. “How long will it take for the poison to bring it down?” she yelled.

Angela snatched a glance at the monster. “Ten minutes?” she ventured.

“ _Ten minutes?”_ Gamora roared. “We'll be in its damn _belly_ by then!”

Gruesome mischief blazed to life, then, in Angela's eyes. “Are you telling me that the deadliest woman in the galaxy cannot even last ten minutes with this devil?”

Gamora rolled her eyes, and gave a deep, weary sigh. She motioned with her free hand.

Angela tossed the vial to Gamora. Gamora caught it.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Gamora managed to poison the creature. After seven more minutes of frantic hide-and-seek, the beast began to grow tired. Its movements became slow and lethargic. Its attacks became sluggish and predictable.

After twelve minutes, the arms dealer's exotic pet lay dead at Angela and Gamora's feet.

Gamora glared at Angela. Angela had a smugly triumphant look on her face, an expression which did not help at all with Gamora's present mood. “I thought you were different from the others,” Gamora said, the slightest snarl in her voice.

“Oh?” Angela said, eyes wide. “How so, Lady Gamora?”

Gamora shot her one last resentful stare. “You were supposed to be smarter than the rest,” she said, and then she turned away, and walked off.

Hundreds of miles above, Quill, Rocket, Drax and Groot turned, and looked at one another.

“That hurts,” Rocket said.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Gamora told Quill about the Niagistini. She told him about ring blades.

Quill needed a moment to make sense of this in his head.

“ _Hula hoops?”_ he said, at last. “You're telling me that some tribe of snake people somewhere have managed to weaponize _hula hoops?”_

Gamora wrinkled her nose. “I don't know what that is,” she said, “but...the Niagistini wield their blades very effectively...”

Quill held up both hands in the universal signal for _okay, some common sense is urgently needed...like, right now._ “Gamora, you are not a giant snake lady...”

Gamora narrowed her eyes. “How very perceptive of you.”

Quill stared wearily at her. “You're doing this to impress Angela, aren't you?” he said.

An inferno leapt to life in Gamora's eyes. “I am doing no such thing!” she snapped.

“You're arming yourself with weapons that you barely know how to use...”

“I can master any weapon in the universe!”

“You're heading into high-risk situations with arms that you have next-to-no experience with, all so that you can _show off_ to her...”

“I could not care less what she thinks!” Gamora spat.

Quill sagged where he stood. “Fine. Whatever.” He took a few moments to decide what was best said next. “Just...just be careful, Gamora. None of us want to see you get hurt.” Then, there came that familiar, knowing _blankness_ in his eyes. “Remember: now that Angela is an idiot like the rest of us, you're the only smart one we have.”

Quill turned to leave. As he headed towards the door, he knew that Gamora was trying to vaporize him with her eyes.

Worth it.

 

**Apologies if there are any hugely egregious canon or continuity errors in this book...I sort of only got into the GotG when Angela came aboard. Looking forward to the movie, tho!**

**In the Spawn comics, Angela was a complete and utter asshole, and I loved her for it. She did some really unpleasant things to quite sympathetic characters. The Angela in this fic is a leeeetle bit more cruel and sadistic than her current characterization in the Marvel books – it's how I like her best.**

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Hooked on a Peeling**

 

**Chapter 2**

 

Angela was a lot more entertaining when she was drunk.

The Guardians were assembled at the bar. They were packed into a booth together, crowding around a table, a small mountain of bottles and glasses already growing before them. Now and then, waitresses came by, delivering drinks and top-ups and refills, and carrying off trayfuls of empties.

There was a question that had been bothering Peter Quill for some time, now, and tonight he intended to have it settled. “I gotta admit, Angela,” he said. “I don't understand this _fascination_ your people have for my world. You told us that you Heven guys tell stories about earth, yeah? You base your myths and legends around us, and all? I mean, you guys fly about, and you fight all these amazing beasts, and meanwhile humans are stuck in traffic jams. You go on these awesome adventures through space, and humans are stuck at desks, nine to five. I mean, where's the attraction? What's interesting about that? It's so weird, I just can't understand that. Why the hell would an angel from heaven be so obsessed with a dump like earth?”

“Yeah,” Rocket said, nodding along. “I mean, Quill's human, and see how dull he is.”

“I am Groot.”

Angela was on her fifth beer. All the Guardians noticed that, when Angela began to get tipsy, her inebriation extended to her sentient ribbons. Normally, Angela's ribbons drifted and sailed exquisitely through the air, as elegant and graceful as their mistress. Now that Angela was in the process of getting thoroughly sloshed, however, they were lurching and lunging about, groping and fumbling their way over the table and around the chairs.

“Well, on Earth, there are _children_ , for one thing,” Angela said. She was in a garrulous mood, this evening. “Earth is filled with children.” Angela gave a sudden laugh. “They are such peculiar, curious creatures! They are so small, and frail, and...and so _innocent!_ They have so much to learn! So many mistakes to make. So much wisdom that they must acquire. I find them so fascinating. I always enjoy speaking with them, when I have the chance. They are always so eager to talk to me. They ask such amusing questions!”

Angela let loose a snort, and then put her beer to her lips.

Rocket pondered what he had just heard. When she was not serving with the Guardians, Angela spent much of her time exploring earth. Had none of them ever wondered what she actually _got up to,_ when she was on the surface of the planet?

“Wait, wait, wait,” Rocket said, holding up his paw for silence. “So, you're telling us that, on your off-time, when you wanna relax, you go down to Earth, and you hide in bushes and stuff, and spy on children?” Rocket turned to Groot. “They have names for people like that, don't they, Groot?”

“I am Groot.”

“Oh, I was thinking of a _much_ stronger word, Groot.”

“I am Groot.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rocket shook his glass at Angela, the beer sloshing about within. “That's what you are, Angela,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “That's what you are.”

A wistful look had come across Angela's face – she was peering into the distance, remembering some happy encounter that she had experienced, not long in the past. “Children are such delightful things!” she said. “They love my armour. And they love my ribbons so much! I let them hold them. Such fetching creatures...”

Rocket considered this. He decided not to comment further. He licked the beer that had accumulated on his whiskers.

Drax's voice rumbled up from the depths. “There are no little ones to be found in Heven at all, Huntress?” he said. “No children at all?”

Angela looked up, and stared at Drax. Then, she looked from one Guardian to the next. Rocket, to Groot, to Quill, to Gamora. They were all gazing at her expectantly. Were there any children in Heven?

Angela peered at them a few moments, and then she gave a snort. “Children in Heven?” she scoffed.

The rest of the Guardians watched as Angela leapt off her stool, and stood before them. She straightened herself, and spread her arms wide, her hair tumbling down her back, her ribbons fluttering to the floor.

“Look upon me,” Angela said. Her voice was a rustle, a breathy whisper, full of wonder and mystery. “Look upon me. Have I ever been small, do you think? Have I ever been weak? Have I ever been tiny, and powerless? Look upon me, and ask yourselves: have I ever been helpless, and little, and afraid?”

Angela's arms fell to her side, and she shook her head. “No,” she breathed. “I am Angela, a hunter of Heven. I have always been strong. I have always been fierce. I have always been quick, and merciless, and terrible. From the moment that was I was created, I have always been fearless, and powerful.”

Angela climbed back onto her stool. She picked up her beer, and put it to her mouth.

Jaws were hanging open. A long, astounded silence was reigning in the booth.

“Wow,” Rocket said, at last. “That's...that's some modesty, there.”

Gamora leaned in close to Rocket, and whispered into his furry little ear. “If you think she's boastful after five beers,” she said, “just wait until she's had ten.”

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Sometimes, Gamora told Angela stories about her childhood. She told her tales of her father: Thanos, the Mad Titan.

“Thanos is infatuated with Death,” Gamora said. “And, by infatuated, I mean to say, _amorously disposed. Romantically fixated._ Obsessed. Death is a woman, you see. A personification of the end that comes to all. All of Thanos' atrocities and outrages, all his transgressions and evildoings – all have the ultimate objective of courting this woman with which he is besotted.”

They were sitting together in a gloomy corner of the bar, Gamora shouting so that Angela could hear her over the blaring music. At the far end of the room, Quill and Rocket were watching while Groot and Drax engaged in an arm-wrestling contest. Groot was far too good-natured to let Drax lose – Drax, meanwhile, was far too prideful and vainglorious, and took it as a personal insult that someone would simply allow him to win.

“I am not some child that must be coddled!” Drax thundered.

“Yeah, betcha start crying like a baby the moment Groot smashes your arm through the table...”

“I am Groot.”

“Guys, calm down...”

Gamora told Angela about her father. She kept it to herself, but Angela felt a distinct swell of _pride_ at the fact that Gamora would choose to share such secrets and insights with her. When it came to Gamora, few in the galaxy were privy to such confidences.

“For some reason, Thanos thought it was appropriate to share his lustful fascinations with his little daughter,” Gamora said. “From the time I was old enough to listen, I remember him talking to me _at length_ about his devotion to this...this _entity,_ this incarnation of death. When I was eight years old, I'd be playing with my toys, and he would be sitting there, waxing poetic about his all-consuming _passion_ for her. When I was ten years old, we would be eating dinner together, and he would be ranting on about the _desires_ that she stirred within him, the _yearnings_ that this mysterious woman kindled deep inside him. When I was twelve, I would be doing my studies, and he would be moaning and lamenting upon how she never returned his affections, of how she never appreciated his love. Ugh! It took me years to realize how horrifyingly _improper_ such behaviour is. Not to mention...you know...all the genocide and murder...”

Angela sat, and listened politely.

Now, Angela trusted Gamora. Angela knew that, when Gamora told her the stories of her father, Gamora was not lying to her. Angela knew that these stories were not fabrications, not falsehoods. No fiction, these. Such things happened.

And yet...

For some reason, Angela found these stories so difficult to _believe._ For some strange reason, these stories seemed so _unlikely._ So _improbable._

Angela could not, for the life of her, imagine Gamora as small. She could not imagine Gamora as weak, as little.

Angela could not imagine Gamora with innocent eyes. Angela could not imagine Gamora with tiny hands that could never harm a soul.

To Angela, it seemed so much more _natural_ to believe that Gamora was always as she was. To Angela, it made so much more sense to imagine that Gamora was always the deadliest woman in the universe.

Gamora was always tall and strong. Gamora was always pitiless and unafraid. Gamora could always wield any blade, could master any weapon in the galaxy. Gamora could always employ any firearm, could send a bullet anywhere she wished for miles and miles around. Gamora could learn any martial art, could acquire any combat skill. Gamora could conquer any enemy, could execute any target.

The notion of Gamora as a little girl – three feet tall, with big eyes and round cheeks and little delicate hands and dainty little feet...ridiculous. Absurd. Laughable. Nonsensical. It made no sense to Angela at all.

Gamora was always a warrior. Gamora was always an assassin, a soldier, a killer, a butcher of lesser beings.

A reaper of souls. An incarnation of death.

Gamora snapped her fingers. “You're staring again, Angela,” she said.

Angela flinched. “My apologies, Lady Gamora,” she said, adjusting her stance in her seat. “I am not properly rested. My focus wanders. I believe the earth expression is 'zoning out'.”

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

“How does it feel...to be the last remaining member of your race?”

Gamora peered at Angela over the rim of her glass.

Peter Quill would have known far better than to ask Gamora such a question. Rocket, also. And Drax. And Groot. Had any other soul in the universe dared to broach such a topic, Gamora would have instantly smashed their face into the table. She would have broken her chair over their head. She would have shattered the glass in her hand, and held the shards to their throat.

As things were, however, Angela could venture places that others couldn't.

Gamora let the question linger a while, and then: “You may feel however you wish,” she simply said.

Not a very satisfactory answer. Silence stretched for a moment, and then Gamora felt obliged to offer something more.

“I know you love your people,” Gamora said. She wasn't sure why.

“I do,” Angela said, firmly.

Gamora wondered how to continue. There was a jumble of words and ideas in her head, and for a few seconds she tried to force them into some sort of order...but then she simply gave up, and shrugged. “My people were dead before I could even walk,” she said. “I never knew them. I never knew anything about Zen Whoberi culture. I don't know anything about the history of my people – their traditions, their customs.” Gamora gave another shrug, and then sipped at her drink, and peered off into a corner. “Never really cared.”

“How can you not care?” Angela said, leaning forward in her seat. Her eyes were wide, and her fists were clenched – it seemed as though she was readying herself to fight some ideological battle that Gamora couldn't be bothered waging. “It must feel as though part of you is missing.”

“I feel quite whole, thank you very much,” Gamora said. She threw up her hands. What was Angela searching for, here? What did Angela expect her to say? “We are both the only living member of our species,” she said. “The difference is: you miss your kind, and I don't.”

Gamora wasn't quite sure why she said that. Perhaps she simply didn't want Angela to be _deceived_ – perhaps she didn't want Angela to become invested in a similitude between them that didn't really exist. Perhaps she thought it best that Angela not become committed to a commonality between them that wasn't really there.

 _Sometimes I'm glad I never knew my people,_ Gamora did not go on to say, next.

_Imagine if they were all taken from me, and I had nothing left of them but memories. Imagine if I had known my family. Imagine if I had known my mother and father. Imagine if I had friends, back on my home world._

_Imagine if the Badoon killed them all, and I could remember them. Imagine if Badoon killed them all, and I had their ghosts to haunt me for my entire life._

_That would be worse. Much worse. Better I never knew them at all._

_There are enough holes in me, as it is. There are enough parts of me that don't fit, that don't make sense._

Gamora stole a glance at Angela, sitting across the table from her. Angela had fallen into a deep reverie – she was lost in thought, a million miles away, in a world of her own. Perhaps she was depressed by what she had just heard from Gamora. She was stooped in her seat, slightly – a rather uncharacteristic posture for a proud warrior huntress – peering absently at a spot on the floor.

Gamora studied Angela more closely.

There were red markings around Angela's eyes. Tattoos, if Gamora was forced to guess. They probably represented her belonging to Heven's Art of the Hunt.

There were ribbons, wrapped round Angela's neck, her waist, her arms, her legs, coiled round her chair, the table legs, the glasses before them, spooling all over the floor, stretching for metres and metres. Sentient ribbons, infused with the power of Heven. They were extremely effective weapons – Gamora could attest to that. Gamora had seen Angela strangle her enemies with those ribbons. Gamora had seen Angela wrap her ribbons around her opponent's arms and legs, and pull them apart. _That_ little display had made Gamora slightly jealous. All of Heven's warriors possessed ribbons of their own, Angela had told Gamora, once. The living ribbons were one of the most distinctive things about Heven's armies.

Angela's golden armour – it offered little in the way of protection, though Gamora knew that Angela was _enormously_ proud of it. Gold, polished to a shine. Wings extending from her hair, stretched wide. Angela's armour denoted her fame and renown as one of Heven's most skilled, most accomplished, most _storied_ hunters. Only Heven's most celebrated hunters were allowed to wear that armour.

Markings of Heven. Ribbons of Heven. Armour of Heven.

A realization suddenly came to Gamora, and she snorted in amusement. A macabre _twinkle_ sparked to life in her eyes. If Angela's people were dead, then Angela could have almost been said to be like like a _living memorial_ to them. A walking, breathing, sword-wielding, blood-spilling monument to a dead race. A jumping, flipping, flying, dancing, kicking, punching, hacking, slashing, slicing, dicing, history lesson.

Angela was all that remained of Heven.

Just as Gamora was all that remained of the Zen Whoberi.

Now, Gamora admired Angela. Gamora _respected_ Angela, and _looked up_ to her, in a way, though she'd never admit such things so explicitly in a hundred years.

Angela was like a dependable make of firearm from a trustworthy manufacturer that never jammed and never misfired. Angela was like a blade that has been fashioned from the absolute finest metals and crafted by the most skilled, most competent smiths.

Still...

There was something about Angela that made Gamora _uneasy._ There was something about Angela that _unsettled_ Gamora.

Gamora did not want to be a commemoration of the Zen Whoberi. Gamora did not want to become some monument to a fallen species – some living, breathing gravestone.

Gamora could never quite put her finger on it, but in a strange way, Angela was something of a _spectre._ A wraith. An after-image.

The Zen Whoberi were dead. _Let them rest,_ Gamora thought. _Just let them rest._

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Gamora sneaked another glimpse at her companion.

Angela was idly spinning her glass around with her finger on the surface of the table. There was a vaguely sad look in her eyes.

For some reason, Gamora felt the obligation, then, to offer some sort of comfort.

“You have no proof that your people are dead,” Gamora said. “There is no reason to believe that. At all. For all you know, you simply went adrift in space, and they're still there, exactly as you left them. Nothing has changed. They probably wonder where _you_ went. They're probably just as puzzled by what happened as you are.”

“They probably think I'm dead,” Angela said, glumly.

Yes. They probably did.

Eighteen months, Angela had now lived in this galaxy. If they were alive, her people had probably assumed that she had been killed in battle, in some remote corner of Heven. They had probably come to the conclusion that Angela had perished in a struggle with some vicious creature, and her remains would never be found.

There was nothing unusual about hunters going missing. Nothing unusual at all about Heven's soldiers venturing into the stars in search of prey, and never returning.

“Will you get a memorial?” Gamora said. A remarkably grim question to ask, but...Gamora and Angela could speak of such things.

Angela nodded. “My name will be added to several walls, in various places,” she said.

“And your collection of trophies?” Gamora said. “All the beasts that you've slain, and hung on your walls, over the millennia. What will become of them?” She raised an eyebrow. “They won't be destroyed, I hope?”

Angela looked up, and met Gamora's gaze.

Gamora could see a decision quickly being made in Angela's eyes.

“No,” Angela said. “No. My wife will inherit those.”

There was a commotion at the other end of the bar. Drax had finally imbibed enough alcohol to climb up onto the karaoke stage, though he still needed some forceful pushing from Rocket and Quill.

“Oh,” Gamora said.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Angela, Gamora, Peter Quill, Rocket Raccoon, Groot, Drax, and the Guardians of the Galaxy are the intellectual property of Disney. No copyright infringement intended.**

 

**Hooked on a Peeling**

 

**Chapter 3**

 

“What's your wife's name?” Gamora said. Privately, she was hugely grateful at how _neutral_ and _nonchalant_ she managed to make her voice seem.

“Bellowyn,” Angela said.

“ _Bellowyn,”_ Gamora said, rolling the name around in her mouth. Silence, then, for a few moments. “And how long have you and Bellowyn been married?”

“A thousand years, thereabouts,” Angela replied.

Gamora gave a start at this. _“A thousand years?”_

Angela looked at Gamora quizzically. There wasn't _really_ anything unusual about this, Gamora supposed. Angela's people were immortal. Nothing unusual about a marriage lasting for millennia, when the participants lived forever.

Still...

Married for a thousand years. “That's...that's some accomplishment,” Gamora said.

Angela gave a faint smile, and the slightest tilt of her head.

It was a little past midnight. They were still at the bar. The night was unfolding around them much as it always did. By now, the noise and music had diminished, and much of the energy in the place seemed to have waned; Angela and Gamora no longer had to raise their voices to hear one another, they noticed. Some way off, Groot was gingerly transporting another round of drinks to the corner where Quill, Drax and Rocket were sitting. He was carrying a bundle of beers, a web of vines and tendrils extending from his arms and wrapping tightly around the glasses so that not one single drop was spilt.

A few more seconds went by in silence, Gamora peering intently at the surface of the table.

“And is Bellowyn a hunter, like you?” Gamora said.

Angela shook her head. “Bellowyn belongs to the Art of the Dream,” she said.

Gamora frowned. The Art of the Dream?

“Bellowyn is an artist,” Angela explained. As she spoke, Gamora could see Angela begin to glow with pride and admiration. “She is a painter. A sculptor. Oh, if only you could see her work, Lady Gamora! Bellowyn crafts statues, hundreds of feet high, and she fills them with such _life._ It always astounded me how she could bring forth such passion and such emotion from mere stone! She paints murals, also. She goes to work in enormous cathedrals; she builds great scaffolds, hundreds of feet tall, and then she paints great murals over the walls and ceilings. Ha! Many a time I have found her, covered all over in splatters of paint. I suppose if hunters must have their markings, so too must artists.”

Angela was peering out of a viewport, gazing at the distant stars with a faraway look in her eyes. There was a warm grin on her face. “To fill Heven with beauty...that is Bellowyn's duty,” she said. “Her honor. That is the honor of all artists in Heven.”

“Hmmmm,” Gamora said, absently stirring her drink.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Bellowyn received a few disapproving glares, that day, when she ventured into the Shrine of the Huntress.

It was clear that she did not belong here – one only needed to take one look at her to understand this. The huntresses of Heven wore exquisite armour, fashioned from gold and silver and steel and iron – Bellowyn wore long robes, spattered with dust and paint. The huntresses of Heven carried swords and spears and axes and lances, expertly crafted by the most skilled blacksmiths – Bellowyn carried a heavy satchel under her arm, filled with pencils and paints and brushes and sketchbooks and sheafs of paper. The huntresses of Heven were lean, powerful creatures, much strength and agility, and courage and grit, in their bodies and souls – Bellowyn seemed rather _soft,_ to the eye. She didn't appear as though she would be any use in a battle at all.

The huntresses of Heven had markings around their eyes: streaks of lightning, tongues of flame, spears and arrows. Bellowyn had markings only on one side of her face: a moon, covering the entirety of her right eye. When they saw her, the angels could clearly tell that this woman belonged to the Art of the Dream. Her marking was meant to symbolize her ability to gaze into a realm of beauty and imagination. She was an artist.

The huntresses cast critical looks at Bellowyn as she wandered through the shrine, and then they frowned and scowled, and strode past her.

“ _Artists,”_ said one, her voice laden with scorn. “Pompous, pretentious braggarts, all.”

“We risk our lives, providing for Heven,” muttered another, “and they sit around all day, waiting for their nonsense _inspiration_ to come!”

“Why is she here?” said yet another. “Does she intend to paint _the shrine?_ Are we to tolerate her presence while she sets up canvas and easel, and paints the place?”

Another huntress was rather more sensible “Has it never occurred to you that if there were no artists, _this shrine_ would not exist? Who do you think carves all these statues?”

“Bah!” said her friend. “Fripperies and ornamentations! We would be well rid of them! Our lot is blood and battle!”

Bellowyn wandered deeper and deeper into the sanctuary. The place was vast. The corridors and halls were broad and spacious, the vaulted ceilings stretching high, high above. Angels walked around on the floors. Angels flapped and flew about through the air, floating and gliding from platforms and walkways to balconies and landings.

The Shrine of the Huntress was filled with statues and murals. Bellowyn had crafted some of them herself. She gazed approvingly – proudly – at them as she walked by.

“Oh, we artists _do_ enrich your lives so, don't we, my sisters?” Bellowyn said, making sure that all could hear her.

Some huntresses wheeled around to glower at her. Bellowyn smiled proudly to herself, and carried on.

After some searching, Bellowyn at last found what she was looking for. There was a figure, sitting in a quiet corner. The moment she came into view, Bellowyn wished nothing more than to drink in the sight of her. Hair as fierce as any flame. Eyes burning with strength and power. The bearing and comportment of a warrior. Gleaming golden armour, as though she wished her enemies to behold one more glorious thing before she sent them to their graves.

The Wingless One. One of the strongest of all hunters.

“Lady Angela?” Bellowyn said.

Angela was wiping a ceremonial cloth over the the blade of her sword, back and forth, back and forth. She drew the cloth across the metal a few times more, and then she placed the sword across her knee, and straightened herself. Her eyes flicked towards the visitor.

“You are no huntress, my Lady,” Angela said.

“Indeed not, Lady Angela.” Bellowyn gave the slightest of bows. “I am Bellowyn. I belong to the Art of the Dream.”

“I can see that.” Angela put her weapon aside, and then she rose to her full height. Angela was over six feet tall. Bellowyn was a few inches greater than five. “What business have you with me, Lady Bellowyn?”

Bellowyn was a shrewd enough woman. She could tell at once that Lady Angela disliked meaningless conversations. Lady Angela had little patience for banalities and inanities.

To endear oneself to Lady Angela, one had to be direct, and to the point.

Bellowyn held Angela's gaze a moment. “I know the whereabouts of the Brollachan,” she said.

Angela's eyes widened in surprise. Now, Bellowyn had Angela's _full_ attention.

The Brollachan was a fearsome beast that had been tormenting Heven for centuries. Over the years, it had slain countless hundreds of angels; it had seized them, and dragged the poor souls off to devour in its lair. None of the huntresses had been able to track the monster down. Many had tried. They had searched and searched for hundreds of years, had trekked into the most perilous regions of the realm in search of the creature, but none of them were able to find the fiend.

“I know where the monster lurks,” Bellowyn told Angela. She paused a moment, and then glanced furtively around the sanctuary. There was no one else nearby. No one was listening.

Bellowyn turned back to Angela. “I know where the Brollachan keeps its foul den,” she said. “I am willing to reveal it to you, Lady Angela. Only to you! You alone in Heven will be able to hunt it down. You alone in Heven will have the honour of battling the loathsome beast, and slaying it. You alone will have the glory, the renown of vanquishing the demon that has plagued our realm for so long!

A hungry fire sparked in Angela's eyes. _Yes_. Yes, this was something that Angela wished for. This was something that Angela desired _very much indeed._ “Tell me,” she said.

Bellowyn paused a moment...and then she gave Angela a coquettish smile. “Something for something, Lady Angela,” she said, a glint in her eye.

Angela loosed a sigh, and her shoulders sagged. Bellowyn was offering to reveal to Angela the whereabouts of the Brollachan...duty compelled Angela to give Bellowyn something of equal worth in return. “What do you seek?” she asked. “A favour, to be redeemed in the future? Or perhaps...”

Bellowyn shook her head. “You alone will have the honour of smiting the Brollachan,” Bellowyn said. “And in return...I, alone, will have the honour of _stuffing_ it.”

Ah. Now Angela understood.

When the Brollachan was slain, Angela knew that there would be an entire legion of artists in Heven all fighting and clamouring for the privilege of converting its corpse into a trophy. The Brollachan was a notorious, infamous monster, feared all throughout the realm. To whomever the task fell, the project of stuffing the fiend was sure to bring the artist much fame and recognition. This was why Bellowyn had approached Angela in secret. She wished to keep the Brollachan all to herself.

Angela nodded in understanding. “When I strike the Brollachan down, I suppose you wish me to keep my victory a secret?”

Bellowyn nodded. “For a while,” she said. “When the beast is slain, I would have you convey its carcass to me. I will hide the monster's corpse in my workshop. There, I will ply my craft, and when the work is complete, we will have a grand unveiling! Everyone in Heven will know of your triumph, Lady Angela!”

The passion in Bellowyn's voice seemed to fuel the eagerness in Angela's blood. Angela was silent a moment, as she savoured the vision of herself standing over the Brollachan's fallen form.

Angela looked at Bellowyn. Something hardened in her expression. “Very well, Lady Bellowyn,” she said. “I will deliver the Brollachan's cold corpse into your hands.”

Bellowyn told Angela where the monster could be found.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Internally, Gamora was kicking herself. How _in hell_ did it never occur to her before – not even once! – that Angela might possibly be married? Angela was thousands of years old. Did Gamora imagine that she had remained a _spinster_ all that time? Did Gamora imagine that Angela had been _celibate_ for thousands upon thousands of years?

There was another question that was also bothering Gamora.

Why the _d'ast_ did it  matter to Gamora whether Angela was married or not?

The silence was beginning to bother Gamora again. “What does Bellowyn think of your trophies, Angela?” she asked.

“Oh, it was Bellowyn that taught me how to practice taxidermy, to begin with,” Angela said.

Gamora hadn't expected this. “Is that so?”

Angela nodded. “Taxidermy requires skill in painting and sculpture,” she said. “Bellowyn provided me with those skills. She was my tutor.” Angela leaned back in her seat, then, and stared up at the ceiling, as Gamora watched her sink into pleasant memories. “Ha! Bellowyn was a _far_ more skilled taxidermist than I am.”

Gamora raised an eyebrow. “Really?” she said.

Angela gave a pained wince, at that moment, as though delving into the past had suddenly become _hurtful_ to her. “Yes,” she said, and as she spoke, Gamora swore she could hear the strength draining out of her voice. “Countless times, I would embark on hunts across the realm. When I returned home, I would bring Bellowyn the corpses of creatures that I had slain, so that she could convert them into trophies. Ha...I would spend _weeks_ , scouring the most remote reaches of the stars, searching for the rarest, most exotic beasts to kill and bring home to her. I was trying to _impress_ her. I always enjoyed finding the most unusual, the most striking sort of creatures, so that I could give them to Bellowyn, as a present. I wished to _surprise_ her.”

Angela gave a shake of her head, as though trying to dislodge painful recollections from her skull.

Nothing was said, for a while.

It was early in the morning. The energy level in the place had completely bottomed out. The lights had been dimmed. The bar staff had turned the volume of the music down to a low hum. Across the room, the rest of the Guardians were slumped in their booth. Rocket had lain his tiny furry head on the surface of the table, and was now dozing soundly. Drax kept nodding off every ten seconds, and then jerking violently awake and glaring menacingly around at the bar, _how dare you doubt my alertness._ Quill was slouching backwards, his arms stretched across the back of his seat; he was too tired to get up and walk from the bar to his cabin, but if he could, somehow, develop the ability to just instantaneously teleport into his bed, like, _right now,_ that would be really great, thanks.

Groot simply sat in the corner, and peered from one to the other, to the other, to the other.

Gamora turned her focus back to the woman sitting across from her. Despite her obvious fatigue, Angela was the only individual in the entire bar who seemed intent on maintaining her _poise_ ; she sat bolt upright in her seat, elegant and stately.

With this new information that she had gained tonight, Gamora realized, the last year-and-a-half could be viewed in a rather different light, now.

Eighteen months. Angela had been a member of the Guardians of the Galaxy for eighteen months.

Eighteen months had passed since Angela had materialized in this universe, with no idea how she had come here. Eighteen months had passed since Angela and Gamora had stood on earth's moon, and clobbered the absolute hell out of each other.

Eighteen months had passed since Angela last seen Bellowyn. Eighteen months had passed since Angela suddenly, inexplicably had her wife taken away from her.

Gamora sipped at her drink, and then decided to speak again. “Can Bellowyn fight?” she said. A strange question to ask, in most normal circumstances, but, given Gamora and Angela's shared love for mayhem and butchery, Angela thought nothing odd of it.

Angela gave a wry smile. “Mmmmm...not very well,” she said. “No, Bellowyn can't fight at all. I tried to tutor her in the art of battle, but...her skills are rather _lacking_ , in that area. Ha! She would say the same of my artistic skills, of course.” Angela put her drink to her lips, and then discovered that her glass was empty.

More silence followed.

Then, without warning:

“I will never set eyes upon her again, Lady Gamora,” Angela said.

Gamora shook her head. “You do not know that for a certainty, Angela,” she said.

Angela grimaced. She turned to look over her shoulder, peering across the bar at Quill, and Drax, and Rocket, and Groot.

Back to Gamora. “The others would tell me that I must not lose hope,” Angela said. “They would tell me that I must believe that Heven still exists, that one day I will be reunited with my people.”

“Well, why don't you?” Gamora said.

Angela gazed directly at Gamora. “Because we both know better, Lady Gamora.”

Gamora stared sullenly at her.

Angela hesitated, a moment, and then she decided to continue. “You and I...we are both hunters,” she said. “I hunt beasts and monsters. In times gone past, you hunted your master's enemies. We are the same. We spent our days knowing that we may never return home. We went about our duties knowing that, one day, without warning, death could come for us.”

Gamora was frowning deeply – she didn't like what she was hearing, but it seemed she couldn't bring herself to object.

Angela went on. “You and I...we both understand how _poisonous_ hope can be. We both understand what...what a _vile feeling_ it is, when you allow a dream to take root in you, and then that dream is shattered.” She looked up, and peered at Gamora again. “I will not tell myself that Bellowyn is still alive, Lady Gamora. I will not convince myself that Heven still exists, and is out there somewhere, waiting for me to return. You of all people know how _foolish_ such thinking can be, Lady Gamora. You of all people know what grief such delusions can bring.”

Angela would say no more. The two women sat at their table in silence.

Gamora wondered if she should try to say something. She wondered if there was something she could say that would make Angela feel better.

No...

Gamora and Angela both hated empty platitudes. Best Gamora say nothing at all.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Angela ventured into Bellowyn's workshop.

The place had clearly not been tidied for centuries. The tables were piled high with paints and brushes and bundles of pages and jars filled with muddy water and clay sculptures and wood carvings and lumps of chiselled rock. Against the walls, there were stacks of framed paintings, while stuffed into shelves and cupboards, there were scrolls and rolls of paper. There were massive windows occupying the walls, the day shining through – an artist needed plenty of light.

“Lady Angela!” Bellowyn exclaimed when she noticed her visitor, her eyes lighting up. “The work is complete!”

Bellowyn led Angela down into a cellar. There, at the bottom, there waited a fearsome monster. It was of tremendous size – long, jagged claws, sharp, pointed teeth, powerful limbs, and, glaring down upon the two angels, terrifying, savage, pitiless red eyes.

Angela looked at the Brollachan, and gasped in wonder. “Lady Bellowyn!” she breathed. “It is exactly as I remembered it!”

Standing beside Angela, Bellowyn allowed herself a satisfied smile.

Angela stepped forward, and examined the beast more closely. It was three months ago that Angela slew the Brollachan. Now, memories of that great battle were playing vividly in her mind. _Goddess_ , Bellowyn had done such a remarkable job preserving the creature! Here, standing in this cellar, it was just as fierce and horrifying as the day Angela had fought it.

The Brollachan was dead, but, thanks to Bellowyn's skill as a taxidermist, the eyes had lost none of their cruelty, none of their hatred, none of their ravenous hunger. The Brollachan was dead, but thanks to Bellowyn's artistry, the monster had lost none of its menace, none of its aura. It loomed over the two angels, every bit as threatening and forbidding as the days it terrorized Heven.

At the centre of the Brollachan's breast, there was a ragged, bloody wound, perfectly preserved by Bellowyn. Angela had thrust her sword into the monster's heart – Bellowyn had treated the wound so that it would never rot, would never decompose away. An eternal representation of Angela's death blow.

Angela turned back. “Astounding work, Lady Bellowyn!” she said.

Bellowyn looked as though she was about to explode from smugness. “We'll unveil it tomorrow,” she said.

Angela quirked her head. “I wonder what will impress the angels more?” she said. “My victory, or your handiwork?”

Bellowyn gave an indulgent grin. “Wine?” she said.

Angela gave a mischievous look. “I feel a celebration,” she said, “would be appropriate.”

 

**Saw the movie. Enjoyed it very much, though didn't appreciate Gamora being softened up.**

 

**So thrilled that Angela is getting her own series. Please don't mess that one up, Marvel.**

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Hooked on a Peeling**

 

**Chapter 4**

 

“I swear, that woman's got a metabolism like a frickin' Asgardian.”

Angela was midway through a twelve-ounce steak. Mushrooms on the side. Medium red wine to wash it down. When she finished, the staff of this restaurant would come and bring her another. She sat primly at her table, consuming her meal in the same elegant, graceful manner she displayed when she was eviscerating and dismembering her enemies on the battlefield. She wore a large napkin, held in place by her ribbons.

All of the Guardians had noticed by now that Angela had an _enormous_ appetite – they had also noticed that she could eat as much as she pleased, and it never, ever seemed to have an effect on her physique.

Rocket peered across at Angela a few moments, and then he turned away, and looked down resentfully at his own rather _unflattering_ gut. “Makes me kinda jealous,” he said, patting a paw against his little protruding potbelly. “All those freakin' genetic experiments, you'd think they'd a gave me something to help burn a few extra carbs.”

“I am Groot.”

Rocket grinned, and made a show of seeming bashful. “Well, thank you, Groot, I know I'm beautiful inside, but still...”

Rocket, Groot and Drax were off sitting at the far side of the restaurant – the smoking section. Drax had a large cigar burning in his massive hand, while Rocket had an equally large cigar burning in his little paw. Groot...was actually physically incapable of smoking, due to being a tree. He was sitting in the smoking section, anyway. Perhaps he was producing oxygen. Freshening up the air, a little.

Rocket settled back into his chair, and then loosed a breath, a puff of smoke floating into the air. “Can you believe Angela's been married for _a thousand years?”_ he said. “Like, can you imagine anything worse than that? Can you imagine putting up with the same person for _a thousand freakin' years?_ Sheesh!” Rocket contemplatively stroked his whiskers, tiny morsels of food flying away. “I wonder how many times she and her wife tried to kill each other? Prob'ly lost count.”

Drax saw things differently. “Your life is fleeting and short, furry one,” he said. “The lioness is immortal. To her, a thousand years is nothing at all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rocket said, with a dismissive wave of his cigar. “I'm just sayin' – if I was married for a thousand years, and then I was mysteriously ripped from my world and dumped into a strange, unfamiliar universe...I'd be _grateful!”_

This restaurant was a rather _upmarket_ place. Tonight, the Guardians of the Galaxy were eating in a lavishly decorated banquet hall, intricate marble sculptures gazing down upon them, blood red drapes rising high over their heads, crystal chandeliers hanging far, far above. On a stage off to the side, a band worked away at bizarre alien instruments, filling the place with music.

Quill was dressed in a suit. Gamora was a vision in purple silk and velvet. Angela was clad in a long white dress, a white shawl flung over her shoulders, the perfect complement for her flame-red hair. Rocket was dressed in a crumpled, creased tuxedo, but at least he had made an effort. Drax's suit was classy enough, even though the outfit had no sleeves, and his enormous, muscular green arms were in plain view.

Groot...Groot was naked as usual. There was nothing could be done.

This place was _expensive_. None of the Guardians could actually _afford_ to eat here, but...luckily, they didn't need to. They had recently rescued the daughter of an influential politician in the star system – as a token of said politician's gratitude, the Guardians had been rewarded with free eats.

Peter, Gamora and Angela were sitting together.

“What d'you think of earth food, Angela?” Peter said, the words finding their way around a mouthful of seafood.

Angela gave a smirk. “I have sampled caviar in New York,” she said. “I have eaten Kobe beef in Hyogo. I have tried fugu in Ginza. I have eaten Foie Gras in London, jiaozi in Beijing, street food in Mumbai, feijoada in Brasilia, Khoresh Bamieh in Tehran, beef stroganov in Saint Petersburg.” She inclined her head. “I like earth food very much, Peter.”

“Wow,” Peter said, his eyes not leaving his own plate. “All those places you've been to...you're like a proper explorer, Angela.”

There was a twinkle in Angela's eye. Her glass of wine was hovering just at her lips. “I have been told stories of earth for thousands of years,” she said. “There was not a single angel in Heven that would not have  _ killed _ to be in my place, now.”

Angel took a gulp of wine. She did not notice when Gamora and Peter shared an uneasy look.

The Guardians had all noticed that, more and more these days, Angela was referring to her people in the past tense.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Angela let out a sigh.

“I am a huntress of Heven,” she said, her voice weary. “For thousands of years, I have battled Heven's most fearsome enemies. I have slain countless monsters and demons to protect my fellow angels...and now, here I am, reduced to the role of an _artist's model.”_

“Angela, stand still,” Bellowyn said.

“I _am_ standing still,” Angela replied, through her teeth.

“Your ribbons are moving all about.”

“That is because they sense my restlessness,” Angela said. “I am _bored_ , and my boredom has seeped into my ribbons, and as a result they refuse to behave.”

Angela's left hand was resting against her waist, while in her right hand, she held a long, beautifully-ornamented spear. Falling over her left shoulder, there was a flowing white cloak, whilst just behind her, a number of weapons were arrayed – a sword, a battleaxe, a longbow, all exquisitely crafted, all utterly lethal. To Angela's right, there was a gigantic stuffed ogre – a vicious beast that Angela had slain months ago.

In the background, Bellowyn had hung an enormous violet drape. If one pulled it away, they would reveal all the clutter and mess of Bellowyn's workshop. Angela's were fixed on a distant point in the corner. Bellowyn had instructed her to seem  _ fierce, _ and  _ determined _ – at the moment, Angela could only manage  _ dull _ , and  _ uninterested. _

Bellowyn had been painting Angela for two hours, now.

Bellowyn's face appeared from behind the enormous canvas. “Angela, as a huntress of Heven, your divine duty is to serve the angels, is it not?”

Angela frowned in confusion. “Yes?” she said.

Bellowyn flashed a smile. “Well, when the angels see a wonderful portrait of the mighty warrior, Angela, then their resolve will harden, and their hearts will be filled with cheer! It will be a morale boost! So, you have a  _ duty _ to stand for this painting...”

Bellowyn vanished again. Angela shot a resentful glare at the canvas, but then she straightened herself. The damned artist had a point.

Angela and Bellowyn's relationship had proven hugely profitable for both. Again and again, Angela would venture into the coldness of the stars, and seek out terrifying monsters with which to do battle. Hydras with dozens of heads. Dragons that could fill enormous caverns with flame. Great leviathans that had wrecked hundreds of ships.

Angela beat them all down, and then she dragged their bodies across the night sky so that Bellowyn could transform them into trophies.

Lady Bellowyn put her trophies on display in museums and galleries. Every day, throngs of angels would crowd into these places to see the monstrosities that Great Angela had cast down. They would gather in the shadows of towering, terrifying demons, and gaze at them in awe and astonishment. They would huddle together in groups, and gasp and whisper.

Lady Bellowyn's trophies were every bit as daunting and intimidating as when these creatures were alive. In the monsters' eyes, the angels of Heven could see all the hatred and fury that they bore towards Lady Angela when the mighty huntress confronted them in their lairs.

“Such frightening creatures!” the angels said. “My blood chills, now, even simply peering at them!”

“What horrible fiends lurk in the darkness yonder!”

“If I found myself confronted by such a demon...why, I believe I would simply die of alarm at once! What would _you_ do, sister?”

“Oh, I would probably end my own life, ha ha ha! I would plunge a dagger into my own heart! Far better than such dreadful monsters get their claws upon you!”

“Lady Angela must be ever so brave!”

“Oh, Lady Angela is surely fearless! How courageous she must be, to journey out into the blackness of the void, to fight for us!”

“Ha ha! If I knew that such abominations as these were waiting for me, I would never leave the comfort of the cities! I would never allow my feet to leave the ground, ha ha!”

“Oh, but none of us are Lady Angela...”

“No, we are not.”

“She is truly one of the most greatest huntresses that ever served Heven...”

Bellowyn was helping to craft Angela's legend. In return, Angela was helping Bellowyn become one of the most renowned artists in Heven.

Back in the studio, Bellowyn mixed some paints on her palette. “Angela,” she said.

“Mmmmm?” 

Bellowyn took a few moments to work out exactly what it was she wished to say. “I...I wish to see what the monsters see.”

Angela gave Bellowyn a strange look. “Hmmmm?”

Bellowyn said nothing, briefly, and then she looked directly at Angela. “I wish to see what the monsters see,” she said, again. “When you stride into a fiend's den, with your sword drawn...I wish to see what the fiend sees. I wish to see the ice in your eyes. I wish to see the darkness in your face. I wish to see the fire in your soul, when you are about to send your adversary to the grave.”

Angela looked quizzically at Bellowyn a few moments more...

...and then everything changed.

All the warmth and feeling drained from Angela's eyes. All the weakness and mortality seeped from her body. All the mercy and compassion vanished from her expression, all the friendliness and amity faded from her demeanour, her comportment.

Now, Angela gazed at Bellowyn with the same countenance that she bore when she confronted an enemy that she was about to cast into oblivion. Now, Angela's eyes were barren, pitiless mirrors, devoid of all mercy and empathy, and within them, Bellowyn could see nothing but a pathetic, cowardly weakling, another wretched opponent to be ruthlessly vanquished. More blood to spill. Another soul to snuff out.

The artist peered admiringly at her model.

“Perfect,” she said.

Bellowyn put her brush to the canvas, and began to paint.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

As far as Gamora and Angela were concerned, violence was not an aphrodisiac.

Oh, make no mistake – Gamora and Angela _enjoyed_ violence. They both enjoyed violence _very much indeed._

For Gamora, there was no greater thrill than sending a bullet thousands of metres across a jumbled cityscape, and leaving it inside the skull of a distant target. For Gamora, there was no greater thrill than walking into a room full of over-confident, under-qualified goons with automatic weaponry, and dancing and twisting through the air as shells exploded into the walls, and the floor, and the ceiling, not one single shot finding its way into her. For Gamora, there was no greater thrill than standing before dozens of adversaries, opponents armed with knives and swords and guns and lasers, all hungry for her blood, all wishing her dead, and then standing tall with all their corpses lying at her feet.

For Angela, no greater thrill than the sudden terror in an enemy's face when they discovered just how quick and deadly this strange, angelic warrior could be. No greater thrill than the dawning horror in an adversary's eyes when they realized that this terrible, terrifying, _glorious_ woman was far more powerful than they could ever comprehend, than they could ever understand. No greater thrill than the horrible despair in an opponent's expression when they realized that their pathetic, paltry combat skills were no match at all for great Angela, and their wretched lives were about to come to an end.

Yes...Gamora and Angela enjoyed violence very, very much. Violence set the blood racing through Angela's veins. Violence made Gamora's heart beat a thousand times a second.

But it didn't make them _horny._

What, did you think they were _sickos,_ or something?

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Where did Angela and Gamora's interests  _ overlap? _

As anyone who knew them quickly learned, Angela and Gamora both had a keen interest in murder and butchery. From a very early age, both women had been fascinated by death and bloodshed – this fascination had existed within them both  _ long, long _ before they met one another.

Angela also had a keen interest in taxidermy. Gamora...Gamora did not share this particular interest _.  _ Nor, for that matter, did any other member of the Guardians.

“I...I just don't see the appeal,” Gamora said.

“Yeah,” replied Peter. “Neither do I.”

“I could never muster the patience to make such things,” Drax grumbled.

“Creeps me out, just knowing that those freak-ass trophies are on this ship,” said Rocket.

“I am Groot,” Groot said, a distressed expression on his face.

So, in summary, Gamora shared one of Angela's passions, and violently disliked the other.

However, Angela had a  _ third _ passion...and, funnily enough, after they knew each other for a while, this passion was passed onto Gamora.

This passion was for  _ Earth. _

Angela was  _ obsessed _ with Earth. She was intrigued by its people, its cultures, its histories, its mythologies. Angela spent her every spare moment on the Earth's surface, exploring the world. She visited libraries and archives, and learned of humanity's past. She listened to music. She beheld monuments and artworks. She travelled through cities and forests and deserts and mountains and valleys and tundras, feeling closer and closer to humankind with every step that she took.

There was not a single angel in Heven that would not have been jealous of her, Angela knew.

For some strange reason, Angela's fascination for Earth eventually infected Gamora, also.

Gamora couldn't quite explain it. She had known Peter Quill for years and years, and yet...she had never  _ really _ been interested in his home planet. It was only with Angela's arrival that Gamora had suddenly found a new pastime.

“Don't tell Peter,” Gamora said.

“Hmmm?” Angela replied, her eyebrows shooting up in confusion.

“ _Don't. Tell. Peter.”_ Gamora's teeth were almost clenching. “Don't tell him that...you know...that I've been heading down to Earth with you.”

When she realized why Gamora was so intent on secrecy, Angela couldn't keep herself from gently mocking her friend. “My, Lady Gamora, you truly wish to project the image of yourself as an apathetic, uncaring warrior, don't you? Even though Peter is your best friend!”

Gamora narrowed her eyes dangerously. Angela simply beamed at her.

“Just...this is a _secret,_ okay, Angela? You can be trusted with secrets, can't you?”

Angela was suddenly solemn and serious. “Every secret that you entrust to me will be carried to the grave, Lady Gamora,” she said.

Gamora smiled. “Yes,” she said. “I know.”

Angela descended to Earth, and none of the Guardians knew that Gamora was with her.

 

** I am reading Thor & Loki: The Tenth Realm. I have this headcanon about how the Queen of Angels falls in love with the infant Aldrif, and raises her in secret. She would make a hilariously awful mother. I'm sure that the actual canon will be  _nothing_ like this, of course. **

 

** Remember in Spawn, when Angela would disguise herself in the form of a helpless woman, in order to get her enemy's guard down? Wonder if we'll see anything like that in future comics. Marvel Angela seems like she just charges in with swords drawn. **

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Hooked on a Peeling**

 

**Chapter 5**

 

Angela and Gamora went to Antarctica.

Their shuttle slowly descended through the air, snow flurrying and winds buffeting around them. With a gentle _thud,_ the craft came to rest in the middle of a broad white expanse, and then Gamora disengaged the engine, and a few moments went by in silence. Gamora and Angela sat quietly in the cockpit, waiting to see if the ice would crumble beneath their ship, and send them plunging into a dark abyss.

The ice held fast. Gamora waited a little while longer, and then she pushed a button, and her seat harness came undone. “We're here,” she said.

A hatch opened at the side of the shuttle, and Angela and Gamora stepped out into the open. Their hair whipped and tossed about in the strong winds, Angela's ribbons snaking and lashing through the air. Countless flakes of snow began to gather upon them – it was bitterly cold, though the chill didn't bother either of them at all. They stood and peered about, gazing at the landscape around them. Rocks and boulders, and veils of white mist passing over. Plains stretching for miles and miles, blanketed with ice and frost. The grey ghosts of faraway mountains, reaching into the sky.

Gamora looked around, and then she turned to Angela, and threw up her hands. “Well, we have arrived,” she said. “So...what exactly is it you wished to show me?”

Angela tried to keep herself from smiling. There was the slightest hint of _conspiracy_ in her eyes. “I will not spoil the surprise for you, Lady Gamora,” she said. “I wish you to be as astonished as I was, when I first came here.”

Angela turned away, and set off across the plain in a very particular direction, the snow gently crunching beneath her feet. Gamora watched her walking away for a second, and then she gave a sigh, and followed her.

Gamora knew very little of Earth, and so, lately, Angela had unexpectedly found herself falling into the role of _tour guide_ – a rather strange state of affairs, given that Angela had only arrived on Earth less than two years earlier. “Be mindful of chasms in the ice,” Angela called over her shoulder, shouting to be heard over the shrill shrieking of the wind. “The snow does a fine job of concealing drops and falls. Put one foot wrong, and you'll find yourself plummeting into the depths.”

“Well, I'm grateful for the warning,” Gamora cried back, suspiciously eyeing the ground as she went.

They strode on through the snow, two figures crossing a wintry realm. It was early in the afternoon. The sky was heavy with thick clouds, a monochromatic pall cast over the entire world. The sun would not last for very long – at this time of the year, there would only be a few hours of sunlight a day.

“The place is rather lonely,” Gamora remarked.

“Antarctica is one of the most thinly-populated regions on Earth,” Angela said, again falling into the role of tour guide. “Only five thousand humans live here, across the entire continent!”

Gamora frowned. “Why do so few people live here?” she asked.

“It's too cold for them,” Angela replied.

“ _Too cold?”_ Gamora looked about in amazement. “This place is _too cold?_ Ugh! Human beings are such weaklings, I swear!”

Angela gave a snort. They carried on.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Gamora followed Angela along narrow paths that snaked and wound down the sides of immense gorges and ravines. She followed her across the slopes of hills and mountains, the enormity of Antarctica sprawling out far beneath them. She followed her through caves and caverns, stalactites of ice hanging over their heads.

“You know,” Gamora said, as she picked her way over some particularly treacherous rocks, “if Rocket were here, I'm quite sure he'd have started a snowfight by now.” And the others would have joined in. Groot, in particular, had a rather unfair advantage when it came to snowfights.

Angela looked questioningly at Gamora. “A _snowfight,_ Lady Gamora?” she said.

Gamora gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh, a snowfight is when people gather lumps of snow in their hands and throw them at their friends,” she explained. “For their own amusement. It's a sort of battle that wimps and weaklings are easily able to win.”

Angela pondered this a moment. “Oh,” she said, and then she returned her attention to the way ahead.

Eventually, the two women found themselves standing at the entrance to a long, dark passage.

Angela looked at Gamora. Gamora could see that familiar glint of _challenge_ in Angela's eyes. “I discovered this place not long ago,” Angela told her. “Ever since, I have been _impatiently_ _waiting_ to show you what I have found.” She inclined her head towards the darkness. “After you, Lady Gamora.”

Gamora raised an eyebrow. “If you insist,” she said. She proceeded forward.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()

 

The place was entirely dark. The rays of the sun never, ever fell here. Gamora and Angela had come prepared – an assortment of floating, glowing spheres orbited around their heads, enormous shadows gliding and flowing across the walls as they moved.

There were gigantic columns and pillars, hewn from stone. They rose for hundreds of feet into the air, stretching up towards distant ceilings, keeping tremendous volumes of rock and earth and ice and snow from crashing downwards upon Gamora and Angela's heads.

Every single surface was covered in ice and frost. The ground. The walls. The ceiling. Every corner. Every cranny. Beneath the ice, Gamora could _see_ things. Carvings. Sculptures. Murals. She leaned close, and squinted, but she couldn't quite make sense of the images.

“Did the humans build this place?” Gamora said. She made little effort to disguise the wonder in her voice.

Angela shook her head. “No, Lady Gamora,” she said. “No human being has ever set foot here. The humans may rule Earth, but this tomb has lain undisturbed for millennia.”

Gamora looked at Angela in surprise. “This is a _tomb?”_ she said. “Who rests here?”

In answer, Angela gestured to a point behind Gamora. Gamora turned, and waited for the light from the spheres to fall.

In an alcove, there stood a large statue. It towered over Gamora and Angela. It was partly occluded by ice, but Gamora could make out the shape easily enough.

The statue depicted a woman, clad in armour. In her left hand, she bore a long spear – in her right, she brandished a sword. Extending from her back, Gamora could clearly see two broad wings, stretching out behind her.

“An angel,” Angela said. “Within this tomb, my kind has lain at rest, for thousands of years.”

 

()()()()()()()()()()

 

Of course, wherever Angela and Gamora went, bloodshed and mayhem were soon to follow.

One moment, Angela and Gamora were drifting through the tunnels and passages of the tomb – the next, there suddenly came a loud _creaking_ and _groaning._ Angela and Gamora both recognized the noise at once. It was the sound of ice _cracking_ and _snapping._ It was the sound of glass _splintering_ and _shattering._

Angela and Gamora jolted to a halt, and then stood in place, gazing warily about, searching the shadows for the source of the noise. Their shoulders were hunched. Their heads were bowed, and their eyes were narrowed. They gripped their weapons tightly in their fists, and waited.

The noises continued. It was the sound of metal _ripping_ away from frost. It was the sound of joints _shifting,_ of spines _straightening,_ of arms and legs struggling to move after centuries of stillness.

Angela and Gamora stood their ground, and watched as enormous shapes marched out of the gloom towards them. Gigantic metal statues – twelve, thirteen, fourteen feet in height. Every step they took, their great metal feet thumped loudly on the ground. They were wrought in the form of strikingly imposing women, and in their gauntleted hands, they held massive weapons – swords, and axes, and maces, and scythes.

Most spectacular of all: the tremendous wings that stretched out behind them. Metal wings, hundreds upon hundreds of steel feathers, all arrayed together in amazing patterns. The living statues tried to widen their wings, tried to flap and flutter, but the feathers were fused together with thick frost.

Gamora stood, and peered disbelievingly at the statues. “And these are?” she said.

“These are the guardians of the tomb,” Angela replied, as she gazed admiringly at the things. “My ancestors created these machines to keep watch over these vaults. They have protected this place for millennia on end.”

Gamora released a weary sigh. “And we,” she said, “are a pair of lowly trespassers.”

The metal sentinels hefted their great weapons in their hands, and then began advancing upon the two intruders.

A tremendous battle began to rage in an ancient tomb, deep beneath the surface of Antarctica. Angela and Gamora dashed and raced around the chamber, dodging behind pillars, leaping off walls, skidding and sliding upon patches of ice. The living statues pursued them through the crypt, thundering after them as they sprinted down the corridors and tunnels.

Gamora leapt backwards, and a gargantuan axe smashed into a column, a large shower of rock and rubble pattering about. Gamora cast a nervous eye towards the ceiling – she wasn't particularly eager for a cave-in.

Angela ducked, and a giant sword sailed over her head, narrowly managing to slice off a few strands of her fiery red hair. Angela hissed, and cursed under her breath, and glared hatefully at her adversary. “That was far more than you deserve!” she growled.

Gamora rolled to her side as a club the size of a boulder smashed down upon the ground, a cloud of smoke flung up into the air. Gamora pulled a grenade from her belt, then primed the device, and magnetically attached it to the statue's leg. She set off racing down the tunnel, mentally counting down _five, four, three, two,_ and then the crypt shook with an obnoxiously loud explosion.

Angela leapt onto a sentinel's shoulders, and then began pounding away at her opponent's head with an enormous golden warhammer. The statue's face warped and crumpled with every great blow that she struck, until finally the ruined metal skin fell away, and the mechanisms and machinery that animated the statue were exposed. Angela brought the hammer down again, and again, and again, laughing heartily as the machine's inner workings were destroyed.

Gamora took aim with her blaster, and then fired off a shot. An immense stalactite fell through the air, and impaled one of her assailants. “Angela!” she called. “Does it not bother you that we are _disrespecting your ancestors?”_

Angela danced out of the way of an incoming spear. “Hmmm?” she said.

Gamora loaded a cartridge of armour-piercing shells into her hand cannon, and then began firing away at an approaching statue. “Your ancestors are at rest, here,” Gamora said. “And...we are... _disturbing_ them. Don't you think this is a little... _sacrilegious?”_

Angela gave a wicked smirk. She managed to rend a small gap in a guardian's armour, and then her ribbons slithered inside, and began wreaking havoc within.

“It may well be that I am the only angel left alive in the entire universe, Lady Gamora,” Angela said. “If that be the case...well, then, I suppose that means that it is _I_ that decides what is sacrilegious, doesn't it?”

Angela spun her hammer around and around and around and around, and then sent it flying into a statue's head, the machine crashing inelegantly to the ground. “ _I_ decide what is blasphemous,” she said.

Angela wrapped her ribbons around a statue's head, and then crushed its skull as one would an empty soda can. _“I_ decide what is sinful.”

Angela reached inside a statue's chest, and tore out its rusting clockwork heart. _“I_ decide what is ungodly!”

The steel sentinels had silently guarded this tomb for thousands of years. Now, deep beneath the surface of Antarctica, their long years of service were finally coming to an end.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

At the very heart of the tomb, there stood a monumental stone sarcophagus, covered in great shrouds of ice. Angela and Gamora could only see the faint, ghostly outline of the coffin through the frost.

Gamora peered around the inner sanctum in amazement. “How can this even be?” she said. “How could your people have built a tomb on Earth? You're the first angel that has ever _been_ to this universe!”

Angela shook her head. Stepping forward a few paces, she gently placed a hand on the lid of the sarcophagus. “This angel lived on Earth thousands of years in the past,” she said, her voice low. “She was its _protector._ When humankind was young, and weak, and frightened, she defended them from their enemies. The humans huddled in their caves, terrified of matters that they did not understand, that they did not _comprehend,_ and she protected them from those that meant them harm.”

Angela's fingertips had become stuck to the ice that covered the sarcophagus. She gave a grim smirk, and then ripped her hand free. “When she died, she passed into legend,” she said. “Now, the people of Heven believe that she is _a myth._ A _fable._ A fictional character. The heroine of fictional stories, nothing more.”

Angela's eyelids fell low. “Hmmm,” she said. “I wonder if the same thing will happen to me, in the centuries and millennia to come?”

Angela stood silently for a few seconds, and then she looked at her companion. “This is all I have left of Heven, Lady Gamora,” she faintly said. Gamora had to strain to hear the words that Angela spoke, though she could see her breath condense in the frosty air. “This tomb...the bones that lie in this coffin...this is all that remains of my world.”

And then, Angela had no more to say.

Gamora wondered what to do next.

Angela was hurt, Gamora could see. Angela was _in pain_. For more than a year, now, Angela had been exiled from her home. She had not seen her people for over eighteen months. She had not seen _her wife_ for over eighteen months – Angela had not seen Bellowyn's face, or heard her voice, or held her hand, or touched her skin, since the moment she arrived in this universe.

Angela was _suffering_. Gamora understood this perfectly. But what was to be _done?_ What could Gamora _do?_

Normally, Gamora hated having to play the part of therapist. She made for a rotten psychiatrist. However...things were different, where Angela was involved.

Gamora and Angela were battle sisters. They were comrades-in-arms. Angela and Gamora had seen each other bleed – they had seen each other wounded, and exhausted. They had seen each other weak, and vulnerable.

If a bullet found its way into Angela's chest, Gamora would place her hand over the wound, and staunch the bleeding. If a bomb exploded next to Angela, and she was flung to the ground, concussed and unconscious, Gamora would throw her over her shoulder, and carry her away to safety. If Gamora's belly was sliced open by a sword or an axe, Angela would hold her together, even as her blood seeped through her fingers.

They were sisters of war. Nothing unusual about this, at all. It was to be expected.

Now, this moment, Gamora's comrade was in pain. What could Gamora _do?_

Angela felt a hand settle on her shoulder. When she looked up, Gamora was peering firmly at her.

“I've watched you vanquish countless scores of enemies,” Gamora said, her voice soft. “This...this _melancholy_ , this _black humour_...it is yet another adversary, no different than all the other opponents I have watched you strike down.” Gamora gave Angela the slightest of smiles. “The Badoon could not defeat you. The Shi'ar could not defeat you. These sad thoughts will not defeat you, either. _You are too strong, Angela._ I know this as well as any soul in the universe.”

Gamora's hand fell from Angela's shoulder. In the loneliness of the icy tomb, Angela stood, and pondered Gamora's words a moment.

And then Angela kissed her.

Angela closed the distance between herself and Gamora as suddenly and effortlessly as she might any opponent on any battlefield.

Angela took hold of Gamora's hand as skilfully and as easily as she might close her fingers round any adversary's throat.

Angela circled her ribbons around Gamora's waist, and drew her close, as gracefully and as expertly as she would drag and pull any kicking, struggling, squirming, screaming wretch to their doom.

Angela pushed her lips against Gamora's, as surely and precisely as she might slide her blade into any adversary's heart.

Gamora's mouth was cold. There was a pleasing _moistness_ about her lips. Their noses momentarily brushed together.

Angela kissed Gamora, and then she realized that Gamora was not kissing her back.

Angela opened her eyes, and looked at Gamora. Gamora was staring at her in something like astonished horror.

_Damn._

Angela hurriedly pulled away. Her ribbons hastily disengaged themselves from around Gamora's waist. The two drew apart, and then stood there awkwardly in the gloom, partly facing away from one another.

“Forgive me, Lady Gamora,” Angela said. She didn't like the way her voice sounded – breathless and stammering. She was looking at the ground, at the ceiling, at the stalactites, at the sarcophagus – anywhere but Gamora. She took a moment to steady herself, and then the next few sentences came tumbling out in a robotic drone. “I disrespected your boundaries. Please pardon my indiscretion. It will never happen again, I promise. I swear.”

Angela peered at Gamora in dreadful, excruciating expectation. Gamora was staring back at her with wide, bewildered eyes. For a moment, it looked as though Gamora was trying to form words – her lips were moving, though no sound came from her mouth.

Eighteen months.

Eighteen months, Angela had lived in this universe. Eighteen months, and throughout it all, Gamora had been her finest friend.

Gamora was the first friend that Angela had made in this realm, and now Angela had ruined it.

Gamora was Angela's best friend, and now Angela had ruined it.

Angela looked clumsily around the crypt. “Perhaps it is time to leave,” she said. “We should really make our way back to the ship. It is likely dark outside...”

Gamora shook her head, and then Angela could do nothing, but wait for her to speak.

“Angela, I...”

Gamora faltered for a moment, and then something _focused_ in her eyes.

“Angela, I...I don't steal other peoples' wives.” Her voice was gentle, though also firm. There was a sort of warm _commiseration_ in her eyes. “Do you understand? I don't steal other peoples' wives...”

**If Marvel ever had enough guts/common sense to make Angela/Gamora canon, it would be funny to see what Odin and Frigga would make of Gamora. They probably wouldn't be very impressed.**

**Last issue of Tenth Realm comes out in a few weeks. I...will sort of be heartbroken if the Queen of Angels is killed off.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hooked on a Peeling**

 

**Chapter 6**

 

Two days went by.

Things were not _quite_ as...awkward...as one might imagine. Angela and Gamora were both adults. They were both hardened warriors – both veterans of countless battles. Gamora had once had all her flesh burned away by the flames of a blazing sun. Angela had once carried a wounded angel across a searing desert whilst poison coursed through her veins. Neither of them were about to let something as trivial as a _stolen kiss_ cause them shame or discomfort. Neither of them were going to be embarrassed or humiliated by a fleeting moment of passion.

Still. There were _questions_ that needed to be settled. Matters that needed to be resolved.

Late one evening, as the sunlight was receding across Earth's Pacific Ocean many thousands of miles below, Gamora stepped into the mess, and faced Angela.

“We need to talk,” Gamora simply said.

Angela wordlessly followed Gamora into her tiny cabin, and the door shut behind them. Gamora motioned for Angela to sit – Angela set herself down in a strange alien armchair, a curiosity that Gamora once dragged aboard the ship from some nondescript flea market on some faraway, forgotten planet.

Gamora sat opposite Angela, on her bunk. She rested herself on the mattress, and then crossed her legs beneath her.

“I want you to leave your wife for me,” Gamora said.

Well.

Gamora and Angela were nothing if not _forthright_ with one another.

The words hung in the air. In the background, there were the ambient noises of the Guardian's vessel – the hum of the engines, the creaking of the hull, the hiss of the life support.

Gamora peered into Angela's opaque white eyes. The red hunter's marks, running down the side of her face. Her strawberry red hair, tumbling and falling...Gamora allowed herself to get distracted for a few moments, and then she realized that more needed to be said.

“I want you to leave your wife for me,” Gamora said, again. There was a sort of _challenge_ in her eyes. “I want you to tell me, truthfully, that your marriage is over. I want you to promise me that, if tomorrow, a portal to Heven appeared in this universe, and your wife came through...you would no longer be hers.”

Angela did not say anything, for a while...and when she did, her voice was almost a whisper. “Bellowyn has been my companion for thousands of years,” she said.

“ _You_ were the one that kissed _me_ , Angela,” Gamora replied, with more than a hint of reproach. She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Why did you even _do_ that? _What were you thinking?”_

“It was a moment of weakness,” Angela protested. “I _did_ apologize, Lady Gamora.”

More silence followed. Neither of them could meet the other's gaze, for a time. Gamora stared sullenly into a corner. Angela shifted awkwardly in her seat, then realized that she was fidgeting, and so sat ramrod straight.

Then...

“Do you love me?”

 _Do you love me._ There was something incredibly _fatalistic_ about the way that Gamora said these words. Something _morbid_. Some sort of _grim anticipation._

_Do you love me?_

Gamora said these words in much the same way she might say: _go on, cut my arm off. I trapped my arm under this great big boulder, and now I can't get free unless you slice it clean off. Go on. Cut my arm off. Go on. Go on._

_Do you love me?_

_Do you love me?_

Gamora said these words in the same manner and the same tone that she might say: d _o it. Shoot me in the head. Put a bullet in my brain. I stood on a mine, and now my arms and legs are gone, and my internal organs are spilled all over the ground. Do it. Put a bullet through my brains. Do it. Put me out of my misery. Do it. Do it._

_Do you love me?_

_Do you love me?_

Angela looked at Gamora...and then she gave a tiny, almost-imperceptible nod.

“Yes,” she said.

She said it _very quietly,_ as though mere words were things that could hurt them both horribly.

_Yes._

_She loves me._

_She loves me._

_I want this woman,_ Gamora thought, then. _I want her more than anything else in the universe. I want her almost as much as I want father dead._

_I want to fight a thousand battles at her side. I want to spill the blood of a million adversaries. I want to end the lives of a million idiots, and I want Angela to be there for EVERY. SINGLE. ONE._

_I want to take her to a thousand worlds. I want to travel a trillion miles. I want to stand with her beneath the light of a thousand different suns._

_I want her in my bed. I want her screaming my name. I want her trembling at my touch. I want her hair in my fingers. I want her breath on my neck. I want her taste in my mouth._

_I want her. I want her NOW. I want to reach forward, and grab hold of her, and pull her onto this bed. I want her clothes on the floor. I want these sheets tangling and twisting around us. I want her ribbons wrapping and coiling around me._

_I want her NOW._

_I want her NOW._

Gamora stared hungrily at Angela, and then...

...and then...

Then, ice and steel began to seep into Gamora's eyes.

“I don't steal other people's wives, Angela,” Gamora said. She leaned forward on the bed, urging Angela to pay close attention to what she wished to say now. “I will not be responsible for breaking your wife's heart. I don't want that on my head. I don't even know who your wife is – I've never met her, I don't know what she looks like, I only know her from what you've told me. She's a complete stranger to me, and Thanos knows, I've hurt plenty of strangers during my life. But I'm not going to hurt _her,_ Angela. Do you understand? I'm not going to steal you from her.”

Gamora's expression softened. “I need you to tell me that she is no longer your wife,” she said. Her voice was a hush, as though to ease the pain that her words might cause. “I need you to tell me that Bellowyn is no longer your wife. If you do that...”

Gamora took a brief pause. She closed her eyes, as though bracing herself.

“If you do that...then I'm yours.” Gamora let her words linger a little, and then she gave Angela a smirk. “And you're mine.”

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Almost two years, Angela had lived in this galaxy, now.

How much longer was she going to wait?

How much longer was Angela going to wait for Heven to find her again? How much longer was Angela going to wait for a way back home to miraculously appear?

Angela did not truly understand how she had come to this galaxy. One moment, she was battling demons in the wilds of Heven – the next, there came a blinding light, and Angela was adrift in a strange, unfamiliar universe.

From what Angela could gather, time and space itself had been ripped apart, and she had fallen through a great fissure between the dimensions. In order for her to find a way back home, a similarly ridiculous, improbable event would – theoretically, at least – have to take place.

How long was Angela going to wait for this ridiculous, improbable event to occur?

How much longer was Angela willing to wait for the impossible to take place a second time?

How much longer did Angela intend to live her life as though the coming morning might bring Heven back to her? How much longer did Angela intend to live her life as though the next day might return her to Bellowyn? Or the day after that? Or the day after that?

How much longer was Angela going to wait to return to her old realm?

One more year?

Two?

Three?

A decade?

A century?

Almost two years, Angela had lived in this galaxy.

Almost two years, Angela had served with the Guardians. _I will only be with you for a few months,_ she had warned them, at the beginning. _A few months, and then I will take my leave. As soon as I find the way back to Heven, I will be gone._ Ha! She wondered if the others had forgotten that little promise.

Almost two years, Angela had been exploring Earth. Africa, China, Europe, the Americas, Antarctica, Australia – Angela had seen so much and journeyed so far, but there was still so much left to see...

Sometimes, Angela fantasized about building a permanent home on Earth. She wondered what it would be like to live in one of the human cities – New York, perhaps, or Shanghai, or Dubai, or London, or Rome. Whenever her mind wandered to these thoughts, she would mentally chastise herself, and push such notions away. She was an Angel of Heven. She would not remain on Earth forever. Her place was among her sisters.

On the other hand...

How much longer would Angela wait?

How much longer would Angela wait until Heven claimed her again? How much longer would Angela wait until she was back in Bellowyn's arms?

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

“Are you _sure_ that this does not hurt, Groot?”

Groot slowly shook his head. “I am Groot.”

Angela arched an eyebrow. “As you say,” she said, and then she brought the hammer down again.

There was a wide pile of sawdust on the floor. Angela was not wearing her usual angelic attire – today, she was dressed in a long apron, with her hair gathered in a cap and her eyes protected by a transparent plastic visor.

In her hands, she held a hammer, and a chisel.

Angela was busily chipping away at Groot's bark-like skin. All over Groot's massive form, Angela had carved an assortment of beautiful little sculptures, cutting the images into his plant flesh. There were angels, blowing upon trumpets. There were angels, carrying banners and standards. Angels, brandishing swords and spears. Angels, flapping about in the air. Angels, crouching on plinths and pillars. Angels, embracing one another as they floated in the sky.

There were angels up and down Groot's arms and legs. Angels across his chest and back. They were all as resplendent and glorious as Angela herself – all strong and powerful, all clad in exquisite armour. Groot stood there in the middle of the room, a serene, contented expression on his weather-worn face. He had never before looked so _splendid_ , so _magnificent._

If Groot was a humanoid, then Angela would, at this moment, be braiding his hair.

Angela struck the hammer upon the head of the chisel, _tatt, tatt, tatt,_ _tatt,_ countless dead shavings tumbling down Groot's body and joining the rest of the parings on the ground. Angela was currently working on the image of an angel with her hands clasped to her heart and her head bowed in contemplation. She carved the angel's hair, falling down around her neck and shoulders. She carved the angel's fingers, entwined together. She carved the angel's eyes, tightly shut in reflection.

There was music playing in the background – a mournful piano piece named 'Aisatsana' that Angela had heard on her last visit to Earth.

Angela tapped away with the hammer. She carved the angel's feathery wings, spread out wide.

“When I first joined the Guardians of the Galaxy,” Angela said, “the only reason I did so was because Lady Gamora promised me that I would find myself in a few good fights.”

Angela tapped away with the hammer. She carved the angel's robes, flowing all around her.

“I am Groot,” said Groot.

Angela gave a soft smile. “Yes, Groot,” she said. “We _have_ fought some wonderful battles, haven't we?”

Angela tapped away with the hammer. She carved the angel's tiny nose. Her mouth. An ear.

 _We have fought some wonderful battles, haven't we._ Angela remembered the time that Thanos invaded Earth. She remembered the time when she helped rescue Jean Grey from the Shi'ar.

“All my life,” Angela said, “I heard stories of Earth. I never...I never dreamed that one day I would one day become one of her protectors.”

Groot gave a gentle nod. “I am Groot.”

Angela leaned in close, and blew. A cloud of sawdust exploded into the air, and fluttered away, and another piece of sculpture was revealed.

Then, Groot turned, and looked down at Angela. “I am Groot?”

Angela peered at Groot in surprise. “How long do I intend to remain with Earth?” she said. Angela pondered this a moment...and then she seemed to become sad, and lowered her head. “I...I do not know, Groot. I always assumed that I would remain here until I found a way back home...until I found a way back to Heven.”

Angela paused for a second, and cast her eyes towards the massive viewscreen that took up one side of the room. Earth was looming large in her sight. She peered at the oceans, and the continents. She peered at the white clouds, drifting across the entire planet.

Angela gave a deep sigh. “To be frank, Groot, protecting this world has brought me much joy. I...I think I would be quite stricken, if I ever left.”

Groot stared disconsolately into a corner. Angela refocused, and then gave the chisel a few strikes. Flakes of wood floated down to the ground.

“Jeez, Groot. You gettin' a makeover?”

Angela and Groot turned towards the doorway. Rocket was standing there, gazing at Groot in astonishment.

“Hello, Rocket,” Angela said.

Rocket wandered into the room, taking care not to place a foot on the piles of wood chippings and sawdust – Groot's discarded bodily matter.

“Groot...I never thought you would ever qualify for _pretty,_ but...damn.”

Groot narrowed his eyes, and gave a deep frown.

Angela beamed with pride. She raised the hammer, and brought it down.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Peter Quill wanted to talk to Angela about something, but he wasn't sure how to broach the subject. Then, it came to him.

“Hey, Angela,” he said. “I have a question about Heven...”

Peter was sitting at the control console, guiding the ship through an asteroid field. Angela had taken a seat at the back of the cockpit – she was busy repairing a length of frayed ribbon. No one else was there.

Angela looked up from her work. “Yes?” she said.

Peter leaned back in his seat, and peered at Angela's reflection in the viewscreen. “In Heven, do angels ever try to, like, set their friends up with other angels?” he said.

Angela creased her forehead in confusion. “I...I do not understand...” she said.

“Do angels ever try to find _dates_ for their friends?” He shrugged. “Are they ever, like, _hey, uh, Angelique, I'd like you to meet,_ uh, uhm...” Peter snapped his fingers, trying to think of suitable names for angelic beings. _“I'd like you to meet Angelica! She's a really nice girl, maybe you'll hit it off_...” Peter cocked his head. “No? They don't do that in Heven?”

Angela seemed slightly perplexed by the question. “Perhaps?” she said, idly twirling a ribbon in her fingers. “Possibly?” Then, she lowered her head. “I...I am not the best person to be asking that question, Peter. I...did not have many friends, when I was in Heven...”

Well, damn. Peter didn't mean to make Angela _sad._

The ship drifted around an enormous mass of floating space debris. “Well...anyway, the reason I ask is, you know...that's something we do on Earth. Sometimes, people decide that their friends are lonely, and so they take it upon themselves to find 'em a girlfriend, or a boyfriend.”

Angela raised an eyebrow. “Do you intend to find me a _lover,_ Peter?”

Peter gave a snort. “You'd probably frighten off any woman I introduced to you, Angela.”

Angela gave a cruel smile. Yes, she would.

Peter altered course slightly so that the vessel could avoid a collision. “Same goes for Gamora,” he said. “Hell, Gamora would beat my ass if I ever tried to set _her_ up with someone.”

A few moments went by, and neither said anything at all. Peter tapped away at the command console. Angela focused on her ribbons. Occasionally, tiny pieces of junk and rubble struck against the hull.

Then:

“She'll never say as much,” Peter said, “but...if you ever go back to Heven, Angela...Gamora's really gonna feel it. You know that, right?”

Angela looked up from her ribbons, and gazed at the back of Peter's head.

“She'll never let it show,” he said, without turning to face her. “She'll forge on, like she always has. She'll keep on protecting the universe, no different than before. She'll never let it show. But if you leave, Angela...she'll feel it. I know she will.”

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

The moment Gamora saw Angela, she knew that she had made a _decision._

She could see it in the way Angela walked – there was unmistakeable _purpose_ in the way she held herself, an undeniable _intent._

She could see it in Angela's expression, in her eyes. This was the look of a woman who had been wrestling with doubts and misgivings, but now could see so _clearly_ the way ahead.

The Guardians had made port at some anonymous, unremarkable space station, in the orbit of some unexceptional, unmemorable planet. Rocket, Groot, Drax and Quill were elsewhere, at the moment. Angela wasn't sure what they were up to. She wasn't sure that she much cared, either.

Angela went searching for Gamora. If she wanted, she could have used the ship's trackers to locate Gamora anywhere within a hundred thousand mile radius. But she didn't. Angela always opted for the more _challenging_ route, and so instead she began hunting Gamora by _smell._ Angela wandered through the streets and back alleys of an unfamiliar spaceport, pushing through throngs of aliens and robots and cyborgs and mutants, Gamora's lingering scent leading her left and right and here and there, down this alleyway and under this archway and up these steps and through this door.

 _Gamora's scent._ Sweat. Pheromones. Lotions. Perfumes, exotic and obscure. Waste products secreted by cybernetic enhancements. Angela followed her nose, and drew closer and closer.

Eventually, Angela found herself in a club, somewhere in a basement deep in the bowels of the station. Crowds of revellers, all in various stages of drunkenness and narcotic-induced euphoria, jumping and dancing about. Flashing, strobing lights, red and blue and green and purple. Loud, thumping music, of the sort that Angela utterly _despised,_ filling the place up from floor to ceiling.

Angela took a disapproving look about, and frowned distastefully. She allowed her nose to lead her again.

Gamora was standing at a railing, a sea of hopping, bouncing party-goers moshing and bobbing about beneath her. She was by herself. She had a drink in her hand. She was gazing off into the distance – clearly, this was a woman with much on her mind.

Gamora sensed Angela's presence as she approached.

“I thought you hated places like this,” Gamora said, shouting to be heard over the music that _so_ _irritated_ Angela. “Are there no ballet performances on in this station, or anything?”

Then came Angela's reply.

Angela's hand found the back of Gamora's neck. Her ribbons reached around her waist. Gamora felt herself being drawn forward, and she did not resist. She closed her eyes, and then Angela's lips were against hers.

Angela could taste traces of the drink that Gamora held in her hand. It contained a good deal of some strange alien fruit.

Angela tasted of mint.

Angela and Gamora kissed, and no one in the club paid them very much attention. The bartenders mixed and dispensed drinks. Enormous, hulking bouncers scanned the place for signs of trouble. The revellers danced and chatted and milled about. The music kept on playing.

Gamora's fingers went around Angela's arm, her blood racing faster and faster at the feel of her biceps in her hand. Angela ran her fingers through Gamora's hair, thrilling at the sensation. Teeth scraped against lips. Noses pushed against one another.

The kiss came to an end. Angela's ribbons remained around Gamora's waist. Gamora's hand remained on Angela's arm. They stood together, gazing into one another's eyes.

“I mean to court you, Lady Gamora,” Angela said.

The corner of Gamora's mouth curled upwards in approval.

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

“Hey, Gamora,” said Rocket. “Hey, Angela.”

Gamora and Angela did not hear Rocket. They did not notice that he was there. They carried on down the street, and as they passed, Gamora reached up, and took Angela's face in her hand. She leaned into her, and then, somehow, Angela and Gamora managed to navigate their way through a busy crowd whilst kissing with their eyes closed.

Rocket watched them go. He drooped where he stood, and let out a weary sigh. “Aw, this ain't gonna end well,” he said.

“I am Groot.”

 

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

 

Angela smashed Gamora into the door of her cabin.

Angela had her hands on Gamora's hips – she was lifting Gamora clean off the ground. It was an unusual feeling, for Gamora to be so _vulnerable_ , so _defenceless._ Gamora wasn't entirely sure that she liked it...but, she knew she would turn the tables on Angela soon enough...

They were kissing furiously, tongues pushing together, nostrils snorting. Gamora's fingers were roaming through Angela's hair. Her hand was gliding across Angela's back, drifting across her bare skin. Angela's ribbons were wandering hungrily all over Gamora – they were slithering and crawling around her arms and legs, slipping around her ass, wrapping around her neck.

Their lips parted, for a moment. Suddenly remembering her surroundings, Angela gave a glance around. “Are we alone on the ship?” she asked. “Perhaps we should take care that none hear us...”

Gamora peered at Angela with the sort of cold pitilessness that she normally reserved for poor idiots that she was about to dismember and disembowel. “If I wish you to scream,” she said, “I will have you _scream.”_

The door was unlocked, and Angela and Gamora tumbled inside.

They kissed, and kissed, and kissed.

Gamora impatiently tore the golden wings from Angela's head, and then threw them on the floor with a clatter.

Angela fiddled with the holsters at Gamora's side, and a pair of guns fell to the ground. Gamora tugged and pulled at the belt around Angela's waist, and then her sword struck the floor with a _thump_.

Angela began fumbling with Gamora's space armour, searching for some sort of zipper around the neck area. Gamora began fumbling with Angela's chest piece, searching for a clasp or a fastener which would allow her to remove it.

Angela's ribbons crawled ravenously over Gamora's entire body. A thought occurred to Gamora, then: _Didn't Angela once tell me that her ribbons were a sentient creature, separate from her? Am I about to have a threesome?_

They kissed, and slid their hands over the other's skin, and pressed against one another...and then, for a brief moment, Gamora opened her eyes, and took a glance around the room.

Gamora stopped.

Gamora froze entirely still, and so Angela paused, and looked at her.

Gamora was peering around Angela's cabin in mute, wide-eyed, bewildered horror. Wondering what the matter could be, Angela followed her gaze.

They were being _watched._

A gigantic spider, dozens of red eyes filling its great head, was peering inscrutably at them.

A enormous wolf, massive, sharp fangs and a lolling tongue and hungry eyes, was staring at them.

A huge toad-like monster, with yellow, grape-like eyes and bright green skin blotched with poison.

An immense demon much like a bull, cruel black horns twisting and curling from its skull.

A giant snake, thick green scales and a forked tongue and fangs with crystallized venom at their tips.

Gamora's hands fell from Angela. She stood, and looked around the cabin in amazement. The place was filled, from top to bottom, with severed heads, all mounted on wooden plaques. There were heads, hanging on the walls. There were heads, piled on cupboards and tables. There were heads, lying on the floor.

Gamora peered around the room with a sort of appalled, incredulous wonderment. “Did...did you make all these trophies, Angela?” she said.

“Yes,” Angela said, with a nod. She was standing next to Gamora, her hair dishevelled, her ribbons impatiently groping through the air. “I suppose I should have warned you that my living area is a little... _cramped._ I do not have much room to store my trophies, I think you'll understand. When I lived in Heven, my trophy chamber was enormous, but I simply do not have the _space_ , in this universe...”

Gamora looked around. She needed a few more moments for the weirdness of this scene to sink in. Did Angela sleep in her bed, every night, with all these dead monstrosities peering down upon her?

Angela tilted her head, curious. “Is something the matter, Lady Gamora?” she said. “Have I perturbed you?”

Gamora pulled her eyes from the mountains of grisly trophies, and looked back at Angela. There was something oddly _innocent_ about Angela's face.

Gamora peered at Angela in disbelief for a moment...and then she gave her a bright smile. “Why don't we, ummmm....” She jabbed a finger over her shoulder. “Why don't we take this to _my_ place, mmmm?”

 

**UPDATE: Hey, if you're enjoying this, I've written what is effectively chapter 7. It's a piece called 'Angels, Assassins and Sentient Bondage Gear', just click on my profile.**

 

**The lack of Angela/Gamora fanart on the internet is a DISGRACE.**

 

**Also, is it just me, or would Angela and Gamora both utterly despise the name 'Murder Girls'?**

 


End file.
